


The Horizon of Giants

by todtart (poptod)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Ancient Egypt, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Revolution, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26144131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/todtart
Summary: Trouble stirs in Nubia. The people, long oppressed by the Pharaoh in Memphis, are getting tired of mining in quarries all their lives. One man doesn't believe he can change things – he doesn't even plan to try, but fate gets the better of him.





	1. Good Man

**Author's Note:**

> I know no one will read this, but I still wanted to put it out there. I really hope someone enjoys it. If I finish this story and like it, I'm genuinely thinking about publishing it, so if you read it, comment some advice! You'll be like a beta reader, if you like. Anyway, here's the story.

With cloth wrapped tight around his head allowing space for only his eyes to see, he weaved through the gathered crowd staring up at the raised wooden platform. Sand kicked up into his sandals, grinding rough against his heel, hot from the burning sun and sharp from the mine's leftovers. A rough wind blew through the gathered people, but it did not deter the absolute attention on what the crowd stood before. Making his way to the front, he found several people standing on the platform, the most notable being a woman with her wrists tied to a hanging pole, her form almost dangling in mid air as she tried to find surface to stand on. Erga winced – violence was a common thing, but that didn't mean he was desensitized to it. He hoped he would never turn down that path.

The rest of the people on the platform consisted of two guards and one of the soldiers, dressed in much nicer clothes than the other soldiers. He assumed that, most likely, the soldier was one of the commanding officers, and as the soldier cracked a whip against the woman's back Erga looked away. She remained silent, her teeth gritted and her lips pressed tightly together as she was struck once more. Three more times before the soldier left, leaving only one guard to look after her, abandoning any care for the woman.

Erga left – there was little chance he could help her, at least not without getting criminalized himself. Thoughts of hatred still plagued him all day, wondering how the rush of freedom would feel if he won a revolution, ignoring the rough pounding of his heart as he returned to the quarry. There he worked all day, stewing in his anger as though it would do him good. It wouldn't, of course – he knew this, yet every time one of those damned Egyptian soldiers spoke to him he imagined nothing but hurling a rock at their head. Unfortunately, Erga was a rather frail person, with no expertise in fighting, and considering soldiers were trained for most of their life, Erga left the thought of revolution for another day.

Upon returning home that night he passed by the raised platform once more, looking up into the dark of night to see the faded silhouette of the woman still hanging there. He would've thought her asleep, but the rope swung, and a quiet whine came out of her. At the hint of a noise he halted, and for a moment wondered if he could do something good for once. It'd be illegal, but worth it, and if he were hanging there he would've much liked someone to come along and free him. Besides – he knew exactly how to avoid the soldiers.

Nervousness clutched him, but he stepped quietly up the wooden steps, whispering nothing but a quiet  _ shhh _ in her ear as he began to untie the cloth gag in her mouth. It fell to the ground, and as it did so he began to claw at the knot holding her up. She began to writhe, seemingly attempting to help him loosen it, but as she did so a pained grunt left her. Pulling one more time at the rough rope it fell apart, launching Erga to grip the woman's hand tight and lead her down the steps. The two began sprinting in silence, the only sound being the squish of dry sand and the panting of their breath as Erga tried to see the layout of the town.

Twisting around the houses, Erga at last found the Nile, pausing to catch his breath as he stood at the shore. After a moment Erga took the woman's hand again, leading her to the docks only useable by the soldiers. He'd used the soldier's boats before – no one noticed so long as he returned it, and no Nubian was allowed to own boats, considering his people were practically quarantined into a single stretch of the river. 

The two of them clambered into the boat, trying their best not to rock it in the water as Erga reached for the oars. He listened for a sound; anything to indicate life, but the only thing he heard was the distant birds and the slow pull of the water. It didn't ease his anxiety in the least, the energy coming out in curled toes and tight fingers. In slow, even strokes he sailed them across the Nile, landing on a stretch of palm trees and grass growing plentiful. Caught in his mask, his breath warmed his nose against the subtle cool of night. There they stepped out of the boat, Erga tying it to the nearest tree as the woman looked up at the sky.

"My name's Erga," he said with a grunt, finishing off the knot and moving from his knelt position to face her at his full height. She turned to him, looking over him best she could in the dark before she offered her hand, shaking his in greeting.

"Makari. Thank you for releasing me," she said, speaking in a quiet but firm tone. "Where are we?"

"Little family home," Erga answered, looking to the other shore before leading her into the copse, stepping over the fallen branches and rotted fruit before finding a hut made of straw and mud. 

The dome structure made it look more like a rock from a distance, a happenstance that Erga much appreciated. Old, warm walls welcomed both of them as they entered, bending down slightly to get through the entrance. Makari had a little more trouble than him, though Erga assumed that was because Makari was much taller. With her being nearly a head taller than him, she had to lower herself to fit the low ceiling, eventually deciding to just sit down on the animal skin set out on the floor.

Erga knelt on the floor, stacking wood and papers into the fireplace, and grabbing the bow drill sitting beside him to start up the flame. It soon popped to life, lighting the whole of the hut and allowing Erga to fully see Makari's face no longer twisted in pain. Her nearly midnight skin was covered in a glow – whether that came from the sweat of the day or the light of the fire Erga couldn't tell, but he immediately noticed the angry red lines around her wrist where tweed rope dug into the skin. She had her knees pulled up to her chest and her elbows resting on her knees, positioned carefully so nothing touched her wrists. 

Without word he moved from the fireplace to the few boxes stored near the entrance, digging through them till he found a pot of honey and a roll of bandages. Cheap ones, rough against the skin, but it would be better than letting the blisters infect to the point of no return. Scooting to her side, he began to drizzle the honey over her wrists as she gave him an odd look.

"Egyptian technique. Works, surprisingly," he informed her quietly, gently rubbing the honey in till the whole of her left wrist was covered in it. From there he grabbed the bandages to wrap around, ensuring the honey would stay, and staving off infection. She allowed him to work away as she watched silently. "What did you do to earn that punishment?" He asked.

"Archery and petty theft," she said, naming crimes he'd heard more than once. The soldiers couldn't have Nubians with weapons, and theft was a heavy offense in their culture.

"You been doing archery long?" He asked as he began to wrap up the other wrist.

"Yes," she mumbled. "I have a legacy to keep up, and I'm not letting some damn Northerners get in the way of it."

"I don't blame you," he chuckled, sitting back as he tied off the last bandage. Standing, he took the honey and the remaining bandages, setting them back in the boxes he found them in. The boxes, while most of them were not his own, must've belonged to someone in his family, as the hut had been built a long while ago and had always belonged to him and his mother.

"Do you have any more bandages?" She asked as she shifted uncomfortably.

"For your back, right?"

She nodded.

"Afraid not. None of them are long enough to wrap around your chest. I'll have to get them tomorrow, make up some excuses about a back injury. Hopefully it won't arouse any suspicions," he said, sitting by the wall and leaning his head back against it as he stared up at the dusty red of the ceiling. "Can you wait that long?"

"I've had worse," she said, but he had a feeling she was lying. Either way, she'd have to put up with it for the evening, until Erga could get his hands on the proper materials.

"Will you be alright staying here for the evening? I need to get the boat back, get back to my quarters, all that," he said.

"I'll be alright," she said with a nod. 

Erga stayed for a minute more before he stood, bidding Makari good bye with the advice of 'kill the fire before you sleep,' and a crate full of preserved food he'd stolen a while back. It was mostly dates, but it was better than starving. He wasn't too worried – there was, of course, the general anxiety of leaving a practical stranger in a hut secret from Egyptian occupation, but she seemed to be on his side of things, and was generally a kind enough person. Certainly not rude, in the least.

In silence he sailed back across the Nile, tying up the small boat on the docks. Keeping up his face covering, he took quick, light-footed steps out of the soldier's fortress, and back into the dusty town. A land once lush with trees had grown to nothing more than a mine, and though his heart ached it was a harsh truth he would have to confront. Not now. Now, he returned to his town home, and laid himself to rest beside his roommate.

Uneasy sleep led to an early dawn, the sunlight shining through the window and directly into his eyes. With a groan he sat himself up, slowly raising to his feet, scanning the room when he stood at his full height. He still had a bread ration from a few days ago – he ate a little of that, keeping in mind the image of the tall, midnight-skinned woman sleeping in the hidden hut.

Pulling on nicer shoes and resituating the cloth covering nearly the whole of his face, he stepped out his home, following the awakened crowd in the direction of the mine. A few people walked in the opposite direction, most likely picking up their pay or starting up their job within the fortress built right beside Erga's town of Semna. 

With his head down he once more lowered himself into the mine, picking up one of the given chisels on the way down. He wasn't stocky enough to use a hammer, and he wasn't strong enough to use a pick-axe, thus leaving him with a debatably easier job. Take the larger rocks that hammers had dug out of the rocky hills, crack into them and see if they had any gold veins. Each boulder had its own number, coinciding with the categorized areas of the mine, allowing people like Erga to tell where the rock had come from, and where more gold might be. Not a desirable job, but he had no say in it. Besides, it wasn't like it was free labor – he and the others were still paid. A meager salary, but it kept him alive. He certainly couldn't ask the soldiers for more.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as the white stone around him reflected the light of the sun, blinding his eyes as he stared down at the rock before him. Digging the chisel into a nook in the stone, he took the small hammer, pounding the nail in till a crack ran all around the stone. He hit the nail one more time, and the rock popped open to reveal nothing. Brushing off the smaller halves, he hauled the next stone from the crate given, repeating the process over and over across the hours of the day. All the while he thought of excuses for getting bandages – if he got off work early enough, he'd be able to go into the market, and there he wouldn't need to explain his reasonings for the purchase. If he asked from the soldiers, they would ask him what he needed it for, a thought that had his pace picking up.

He finished with his two assigned crates an hour early, leaving the quarry with a pleasant smile and respectful bow to the guards looking over them. As he walked back into town he muttered, "fucking assholes," stuffing his hand in his pocket and fumbling with the few coins given to him. It would be enough,  _ just _ enough, to get the proper bandages for Makari.

The market was nearing closing time, and with the few minutes remaining he bought a bundle of wrappings from the man at the medicine stall. Saying his thanks, he dropped the coins into the man's hands, taking the bundle in his arms and heading towards his home. He would have to wait until nightfall to reach Makari again, as there was no chance of wading the deep waters of the Nile, and he would never think of stealing a raft in bright daylight.

To his fortune the days were growing shorter, and the sunset came earlier. He bided his time, waiting till all the world was encompassed in black rather than pink and red, before he stuffed the bandages into his satchel and left the light of his home. 

Adjusting the mask over his face he stayed close to the houses, hiding in their shadows as soldiers passed by. His shoes remained soft against the dirt and gravel, soon moving onto wood, where he knew to avoid the creaking planks and stay to the side. Nearly standing on the poles holding the dock up he made it to the boats, untying one and slipping silently into it. There he rowed, using slow, soft movements till the docks vanished and the trees of the other shore came into sight, pitch black beside the dark blue of the night sky.

Once the mud and dirt at the bottom of the river began to brush against the bottom of the canoe, he stepped out, his shoes soaking in the warm water as he tied the boat up to the nearest tree. Hauling the satchel back over his shoulders, he left the shore and headed into the thick brush in search of his hut. It didn't take long – Makari must've started another fire, as quiet smoke rose from the chimney hole, and light creeped through the battered wooden door. He knocked twice on the wood before entering, finding her sitting beside the fire with fresh dates in her hand.

"Aren't those a little... out of season?" He asked slowly, closing the door behind him as he set the satchel on the floor.

"A little," she answered, swallowing when he sat down beside her. Looking down into the basket in front of her, he found fresh dates, presumably from the trees outside giving off the dying remnants of summer as the decay of fall began to settle into the earth. "They're good fresh, though."

Erga shrugged. Who was he to dictate another person's preferences?

Instead of asking more questions he pulled the wrappings out of his bag, instructing her to sit up straight and pull the shirt loose against her muscles off. She did so, letting him coat the worse scars in honey, before taking the bandage from him and beginning to wrap it around her chest and back. He helped when needed, aiding in her lowered flexibility till she wore pale bandages covering most of her waist and chest. Tearing it off the roll, he tied it to the other end, tucking it into one of the wrappings.

"Are your wrists doing any better?" He asked as he rolled up the unused bandages, hoping to save them for later occasions.

"Still hurt, but they're not bleeding or chafing," she said, raising her hands to look at the bandages by the firelight. He nodded, tighting the bandages before putting them in the crate filled with shorter wrappings.

In the close light he finally noticed something he hadn't seen before; arrays of scars across the soft skin of her arms, healed lashes across her shoulders and the back of her legs. Her nose, wide with little bridge, sat gently upon her warmed cheeks, pairing well with almond eyes filled with a deep, dark aura. Hair grew puffy off her head, something he imagined might have once been beautiful. Now it sat in tangles, bouncing heavy on her forehead and the back of her neck. Overall, she was rather beautiful – someone Erga could find himself often admiring. 

However, looks weren't all that important. He wasn't looking for any type of relationship with this woman, only just now  _ barely _ warming up to the idea of being friends with her. It did call the question as to why he was so willing to help Makari, working harder to get to the market and spend his own money, and risking his freedom by chancing stealing a boat two nights in a row. Any sane person would've chalked it down to Erga being a generally nice human being, but him being himself, he thought it more of a fate that he met her. 

Erga seemed the type of person that would have many friends, with his quiet but kind demeanor and the way he kept calm under all pressures. This was clearly not the case, though not by any fault of his own – this was due solely to the fact everyone he had known while growing up were shipped off to greater cities to work as servants, while men like him were scattered out by job across the quarry towns. Then perhaps it was meant to be that he had no one left, pushing him into a more severe compassion for those he did not know.

While he considered the will of fate and the universe, Makari pondered upon what she would do next. In essence she had already decided to never return to Semna, as she had been jailed there several times for reasons that currently remain unimportant, leaving several options in its' wake. She could move to one of the bigger cities – claim she was Egyptian, find a job as a soldier or a hunter, or she could abandon civilization permanently. Wander out into the desert, find some oasis and stay there. It seemed a terribly lonely decision, and she found herself enjoying the thought of cities more, as long as she retained her freedom and the ability to shoot her bows and arrows.

"Do you think I could steal one of the boats at the dock? Permanently, that is," she said after a long stretch of silence, still staring into the flickering flames.

"What is it that you need it for?" He asked, a quiet curiosity coming out as a low suspicion. She couldn't blame him – he'd only known her for around two days, and stealing a boat could be a rather harsh offence if caught by the wrong people.

"I want to leave this place. Go to Memphis," she answered quietly, looking to him, only to find him already looking at her. "You can come with, if you want."

"Memphis?" He repeated, looking to the floor as he thought. "It's a rash decision. I can see why you want to make it," he clarified before continuing, "but it's been ages since news of Memphis has reached Semna. None of us know what it's like there."

"It can't be worse than here," she chuckled, to which he agreed humorously.

"Actually," he said, moving to his knees and making his way to the boxes, rifling through them once more in search of parchment, "I have a friend there. We haven't talked in a long while, but they've got a good medicine practice started up. Only problem is actually getting a letter to them."

"Are the mail routes still blocked off?" She asked, irritation lacing her voice. They'd been cut off from the rest of the Nile for a long, long time, starting with the original ban of Nubians crossing north of Semna. He nodded, pulling a tired groan from Makari.

"You have any friends in this town?" He asked as he found parchment, setting it on the ground as he went for ink, finding it almost immediately. Dipping the reed into the ink, he began to write on the parchment a note to the doctor.

"Not exactly. None that could help, at least. They're all too old or working in the quarries," she said, watching in interest as he wrote. Very few people could write, much less Nubians being able to write, leaving it a much-desired talent few people had. "How do you know how to write?"

"Picked it up from the soldiers' mail and orders," Erga said with a hint of pride. Well deserved pride. "Here, you think of ways to get this into the mail, I'll write the actual note."

His legs crossed and the parchment on the floor, he bent down till his chest touched his legs, scribbling down the words with an intense flair that had tiny droplets of ink landing on his tan skin. In the meantime, Makari thought of ways to get the letter to Memphis. There was the possibility of catching one of the illegal carriers – people who ran by the Nile or sailed in it, carrying private letters without the borders of Egypt and Nubia, but that costed a massive amount of money. After all, they had to tend to their own needs without help from the government all while proactively avoiding the many soldiers stationed up and down the river.

The only other option Makari could think of was to disguise the letter amongst the mail of the soldiers, address it to the right person and pray to the Gods it arrived correctly. It was a faster method than private carriers, but also far more dangerous, leaving her to wonder if it was worth it. Her decision depended on how much Erga had saved up, a question she didn't know the answer to. Instead of interrupting his frantic writing she waited until he finished, only then posing her question.

"How much are you willing to spend to make sure the letter both gets there and we don't get caught?" She asked, watching his expression carefully for any changes. The corner of his lips turned up slightly, a soft chuckle leaving him as he turned to her, gauging her own expression.

"I used a good lot of my coins for those bandages. I don't think I could afford it even if I wanted to," he said, dampening her hopes. She didn't fall too far – he kept a quiet smile on his face, something she couldn't understand but appreciated either way. Most people she had conversed with lately were soldiers who had little taste for her.

"Only other option is the Egyptian mail route," she said, biting at her lip in deep thought.

"It'll have to do. I have to go back now," he said, standing, "but I'll be back tomorrow night. Remember to douse the fire – I'm going to try and get this into their mail."

"Good luck," she said, watching the door creak and shut as he left the warmth of the hut.


	2. Letters to the Saints

Pikta's job came with a very nice dental plan. Despite that, he still disliked his job, stemming mostly from the fact that his job was to keep a foreign land under the control of the Pharaoh. Governors had sent him from Memphis to where he stood now, the heat of the sun burning into his darkened skin as he overlooked the quarry filled with Nubians. Most of the workers were either underpaid or not paid at all. He supposed he should've found himself lucky – nice pay, not too difficult of a job, but it didn't stop the guilt from creeping up when the people of the land looked to him with daggers in their gaze. In those times he found himself wishing he was back in the royal palace.

Any person could claim that the atrocities they commit were only orders, a comment Pikta often found himself falling upon. He knew that with a whip in hand he held a total control over the Nubians stationed at Semna, a fortress only one out of several the Pharaoh had built in hopes of controlling Nubia. Could one really say an oppression that had been there for many years before his birth was Pikta's fault? He did very little to stop the prejudice, though neither did anyone else, and it was just easier to listen to orders. 

His consciousness banged on the forefront of his thoughts every time he drew his sword, begging to just go home. Fortunately he had a fair amount of self control, and as the exhausted workers left for the evening he let out a sigh. Another day gone – evening making the way for another dawn that would bring the same day that seemed to repeat endlessly. Turning from his high point overlooking the quarry, he began to walk down the steps, paying the rail little mind as he looked up to the stars. The blanket of Nut's skin over the globe of the earth nearly always brought him comfort, and as colder winds began to blow from the east he rounded down the path into the townhouses built inside the tall walls of the fortress.

Each of the soldiers and guards stationed at Semna were assigned to specific quarters, and with the growing population of Nubians, the fortress was overrun with incoming soldiers to ensure the Pharaoh would not lose the town. Pikta was an unfortunate victim of double housing, where two houses of soldiers (usually already containing three people) were crammed into one home. The homes were already small, with barely enough room to house one's belongings and weapons and sleep. 

Pikta circled around the winding streets, peeking his head into the homes every now and then, finding either quiet chatter or loud snoring. He soon followed the remaining awake crowd to the center of the walled in fortress, where a fire had been built, the flames climbing high above the walls and flickering in the soft gusts of wind. Food had been set out in great platters for soldiers to take as they wished, and as Pikta took his own fair share he felt a strong sense of community. He'd felt this before, but never before had it been a negative community, filled with people who never understood his discomfort with absolute control. Not that he'd actually mentioned it to anyone – even the insinuation that you didn't believe in the Pharaoh's holy rule would land you dead. No, people just had a habit of picking up on it, and Pikta felt little need to hide that aspect, as long as it didn't show too greatly.

Listening to the sounds around him, he picked up little conversations between close friends and acquaintances, discussing politics and the various tasks assigned upon them. Unlike those around him he ate in silence, wanting to head back into sleep as soon as possible. Tomorrow would be another day swamped with work, and it was best to get good sleep beforehand.

With quiet footsteps he left the fireside, returning to his home where two men already lay sleeping against the wall. Digging his hand into one of the chests stocked away in the corner, he pulled out parchment and ink, and in coptic he began his letter to the governor.

Pikta was, most likely, the only soldier in the encampment who knew how to write. In fact, it was also likely he was the only soldier overall who knew how to write. It just wasn't a talent that a soldier needed. However his letters had a very special purpose, one assigned upon him by a very well-to-do man who had a hand in Pikta's assignment in Semna. Keep an eye out, the governor Piye told him – write of the mood of the peoples, the unrest of the political situation, and of the behaviors of the soldiers. Most times he wrote, he left out the details of his own mood. It was better to focus on others – for both his safety and for the bonuses he got with the extra assignment.

In this letter he wrote of what he usually did. Things he noticed, the talk of the town, the weather and the progress in the mines and quarries. Piye, like many others, had very little interest in the actual state of the workers, and instead vested his energy in what the workers were completing regardless of the hazard.

_ Hello. _

_ You will be glad to know that not much has changed. The soldiers are happy with their duties and pay, and they get along well. No fights like last month. If there is a downside to the bonding happening between us Egyptians, it would be the – and I cannot phrase this any other way – sheer hatred the Nubians have begun to show. No serious actions of course, but it is clear to see anyway. They rarely speak with us, and though that has allowed an easier take-over of their culture, it worries me. I'm sure it will all be fine – after all, the worries of one man equate to little in your world. My world is much smaller than yours, much easier to control but harder to not fall into that trap of empathy.  _

_ I hope this occupation does not last long for the first of us soldiers to arrive; many of us desire to see our families once more, for it has been a long while since any visits home have been allowed, and the end of our duties has never come. Not a single man who comes here has been finished with his duties – some are beginning to wonder if it will ever end.  _

_ Chaos is stirring, but it is only the steam before the boil. I will not advise you on how to approach this situation – it is not my place, and anything I can think to say to you, you must've already thought of and disregarded as futile. I hope you will have an easier time than I in discovering a solution to this dilemma. _

_ Awaiting your orders, _

_ Pikta _

He had to keep his language under control, in both propriety and respect. The governor Piye, like most other high-borns and mayors, was a man who thought himself above all others. That belief required Pikta to make sure he used demeaning language towards himself and reverent language towards Piye – any insinuation that Pikta knew better, or had an idea better than the governors, would do him no good.

Rolling up the thick papyrus he took a ribbon, tying it in a neat bow to keep the scroll tight together. He stood, and with footsteps as quiet as they were before, he brought it to the Captain's room and left it in the outgoing box, which was soon to sail down the river and towards Thebes. With his once-weekly task complete, he returned to the little home now filled with four people, and fell asleep beside his fellow soldiers.

In the morning one of the young postage boy picked the crate up, filled with letters and numbers all dictating the wealth output of Semna. Other boxes followed – chests filled with gold, trinkets of silver, Nubian statuettes that would sell well in Thebes. The postage boy, who worked for his father, was named Chisisi, and he knew little of the inner workings of what he actually did. All he knew was that he needed to bring the boxes from the shore onto the deck of the boat, stowing away the more priceless riches and keeping the cheaper items on top. His father, who manned the actual sailing of the boat, didn't know much about his tasks either. They knew to sail down the Nile, northwards to Thebes and beyond. It wouldn't take too long, either – the joys of tightly spaced cities. Nonetheless with the still wind it took them a few days to reach the city.

Once his father docked the sailboat, Chisisi began unloading, aided by the boys and men who worked outside the city, working a much-needed job. Unlike Memphis, Thebes had large, pristine white walls encircling it. The gate leading to the river where Chisisi and his father stood was a grand one – pillars that ran far into the sky, sharp angles allowing clear shadows and a sense of cleanliness. He didn't pay it much attention. Class mattered little to him, and as the sun reflected upon the pale walls and into his eyes, he grew a temporary distaste for all things rich.

The boxes assigned to Thebes were soon filed into a large crate, ready to be recorded and delivered into the city. From there Chisisi and his father reboarded their boat, preparing for the journey to Memphis, where the rest of the mail would be unloaded. Pikta's letter, however, remained in the cart under the close supervision of several city guards.

Once every letter and gift had been distributed to the right people, the letters remaining only consisted of those meant for the state. That meant a delivery to the home of Thebes' mayor, Piye. Piye, while being a stereotypically rich person too high on their own fumes, was a good enough politician that very few people felt afraid of him and even less doubted his will. Still, the final letter from Chisisi's boat was given by one of his servants, instead one of the soldiers who delivered the letter in the first place.

Piye stood at his table, looking over maps and timelines of events in hopes of predicting future scuffles, and debating ways to prevent such events. His servant entered the room with a quiet knock, handing him the scroll when Piye held out his open palm without ever looking away from his desk.

Finishing his train of thought regarding soldiers and their placements along the Nile, he unravelled the scroll, tossing the brown ribbon into the corner of his study as he began to read what Pikta had written. A simple enough assessment of what Pikta had observed – Piye would've given more details, but the letter did its' job. Perhaps it was time to lighten up on some of the restrictions, but going by the account of growing distaste, it could also be the time to double such restrictions. Piye would not risk the Nubians growing too much freedom of thought. It could only herald bad things, and he relayed these thoughts in his letter to the Pharaoh, who read the letter late into the night alongside the many other scrolls detailing the happenings of every other fortress along the Nile.

The only light allowing the Pharaoh to read was the burning of a couple rushlights, set delicately in a bowl made of clay, which remained ever at his desk. Past the bookcases filled with innumerable scrolls and artifacts, the city of Memphis shone in lively colors, the lights of the city shining like stars against the dark earth. A reflection of the heavens could always be seen in Memphis – after all, it was a holy city, made so by the son of Osiris on earth, carrying the title of Pharaoh and the name of Senusret. He was a proud man; always kept his posture straight, tended well to his beard and kept his clothes meticulously clean. His own skin had grown pale, a result of staying indoors throughout the day as he dealt with the inner workings of the city and nation. In his youth he had bright eyes and skin loved by the sun, but duty takes a toll on the body, just as it works to meld your mind into a different person.

Complex situations were a staple of his life, and though he did not enjoy them he had a knack for solving them. Many of nobler origins admired this aspect of him – the resoluteness in his opinion, the unchanging beliefs, and his desire to do what was best for the people. Now that best came at a price, one he was saddened but willing to pay. After all, life had always been like this. Hardly anyone remembered a time when Nubia  _ wasn't _ in trade with Egypt, and though he had always been under that rule, he knew when it had started. A long while ago with the attack on Kerma, a place now wiped off all maps. That singular decision led to the occupation of Nubia, a land rich in gold, a gold that Senusret desired, a gold that sickened those good of heart and lusted over by those who want naught but power. Senusret did not consider himself one of those people, but nonetheless he carried out actions and orders as if he were.

For the time being, there need be no edits to the preplanned schedule. There were no outbreaks, no riots, no skirmishes, and there were very few complaints from the soldiers stationed at the various fortresses. It would be another peaceful evening, a peace fed on the land up the Nile. Although he dealt with his own guilt and thoughts alone, he knew each of his actions to be necessary, as the riches from Nubian land had allowed for a long stretch of peace and prosperity for both his people and theirs. Though, after such a long time under Egyptian rule, Nubians were beginning to grow and become a part of his culture. If all went according to plan, this assimilation would complete itself fully, and Senusret could rule over peaceful years, handing down a rich and fair state to the next Pharaoh.


	3. A Note

In most definitions of the word, Pesehet was normal in a special way. That meant that while Pesehet was normal, fitting into society well and without argument, they had a fair amount of talents that set them apart from others in a good way. The chief talent most people associated Pesehet with was healing, and although they had been offered a job in the palace as a priest or physician, they kept up a private practice, choosing their customers and rejecting the ones that offended them.

Of course, none of this information mattered as Pesehet stood in court amongst the general populace, watching the Pharaoh deliver false verdicts and punishments for petty crimes. It explains how they got there, but it did not allow them to help those convicted of false trespasses. Instead they watched on, flinching when those wrapped in their own chains begged for mercy, watching in interest at how the King treated his workers.

The King, ever nothing more than a royal, sat upon a throne made almost entirely out of gold and alabaster. Despite that it wasn't well decorated or carved – instead, the white of the alabaster had been entwined with streams of gold, leading down the sharp but simplistic design of the seat. No fanciful decorations, unlike the throne seat next to him, which remained empty for now. There were only a few people allowed up on the same marble platform the Pharaoh sat upon; two advisors, two governors, two military commanders. Pesehet wasn't sure of any of their names, but the uniforms gave their titles away easily.

As they tried to look over the heads of the people beginning to grow closer to the king, the golden chain connecting their brow piercing and earring hit into their eye. Scrunching up their nose, they readjusted the large, shield-shaped earring in hopes of getting it out of the way. Soon they found their way back into the front of the crowd, once more watching the Pharaoh carefully as another bill was being debated in front of him.

"This mistreatment of slaves is a bill we have gotten several times in this palace," the Pharaoh drawled, interrupting the conversation the two nobles were having before his throne. "As with other times, this is not a case of state misuse, but personal misuse. I cannot control what people do in the privacy of their homes."

"By that logic, you allow abuse and sodomy to pass by without fault," one of the nobles said, anger tinging their voice.

"I do. If someone wants to bring up private abuse they may do so, but until that day comes, they shall remain as they have been. As for sodomy, someone of your status should know it isn't called that anymore. Hasn't been since my grandfather, and I don't find anything wrong with it as long as it is kept within the privacy of the home," the Pharaoh continued, voicing opinions that ranged from barbaric to liberal. 

The people of upper Memphis had issues with this method of his – it was what made him not only a controversial king, but a good one. He did horrible things sometimes, but he also did things no other King had done before, making up for his atrocities. Even Pesehet had issues gauging their own opinion on the King, leading them to not think on politics much. Whether that was a good or bad thing they couldn't tell, but it left them out of a lot of discourse with other citizens of the city, and certainly helped out with their medicine practice.

Pesehet left court early that day, what with not actually needing to attend, and coming only as a courtesy to the King. As always the King kept in close contact with them, something Pesehet attributed to their talents. If there were any other reason, Pesehet did not want to know it, believing that any other reason would probably be worse than the original.

Jogging down the pure white steps leading up to the palace, they lay their eyes upon something past the mansions lining the streets. Smoke, laced with the scent of cooking meat came from the lower markets, and as always its' effect on Pesehet was nothing more than delectable positivity. When not working, the markets was usually where you would find them – buying from artisans and scanning the goods of foreign traders, tasting the foods of different cultures, and doing all of it alone. Just because Pesehet could afford this kind of lifestyle did not mean they had someone to share it with; no one in Memphis, at least. Swamped with work and their own hobbies and duties, Pesehet had never taken the time to actually know any of their neighbors. Of course, the neighbors were all rich nobles, purebloods of Memphis.

Pesehet was not.

Pesehet was the exact opposite of a pureblood Egyptian. They belonged to Nubia, a place far South, where the fertile black lands gave way for wastes of sand dotted with oases. No one could know this, so don't tell anyone.

On the way home they passed a garden, where the trees grew tall and every flower bloomed in summer and winter months. It was a place herald as a haven, a place of happiness, and a home in which to find peace. Pesehet usually doubted the effect physical surroundings had on inner peace, but even they had to admit that the soft grass and the cool water pond were great at calming the soul. This admittance only came about when Pesehet befriended the garden caretaker, a woman named Shani who had eyes as blue as the sky and skin as dark as the black earth of the Nile. As Pesehet passed by Shani noticed them, a bright smile appearing on her face as she abandoned the feeding ducks, jogging to catch up with her friend.

"How was court this morning?" Shani asked, her long strides slowed to match Pesehet's.

"Tiring. I'm glad I turned down that offer to be the palace physician. Pays better, but... well, tiring," Pesehet noted with a soft chuckle, their tone quiet and introspective as the two of them headed down the streets, in hopes of finding the marketplace.

"It's often like that, isn't it?" Shani said with a nod. "I don't envy your practice, either. However I  _ do _ suggest gardening. You've got a fantastic plot of land, massive area for a garden, and -"

"- and this is the fifth time you've brought it up," Pesehet said. "You just want to get me out of the house."

"Maybe a little," Shani admitted, a sweet giggle leaving her.

To be fair, Shani wasn't all that wrong – Pesehet rarely left their house these days. Not out of any desire to stay home and avoid people, but simple laziness, and the requirements of their work. Still, Pesehet held firm in their belief that their garden was perfectly fine on its' own despite the fact that nothing grew in it. If Shani wanted them to have a garden, she could grow it herself, and in that case Pesehet might even offer their help every now and then.

"Lunch, then?" Pesehet asked as they turned the corner, the sounds of the market beginning to grow in the chatter and bustle of those coming and leaving.

"Sure. I've got a meeting with one of the priests in a couple hours, so I can't stay too long," Shani said.

"That's fine... I need to practice incantations anyway," Pesehet said, turning to her with a small smile before at last they turned the corner, appearing in the market.

The sounds and scents of human life came from everywhere here – there was no greater place than this to truly live, to understand the core aspects of life in Memphis. The higher markets were far too expensive for common folk, and the markets outside the city were more for foreigners who didn't want to get arrested, leaving the market in the middle of the city the most crowded, as well as the biggest. Smoke rose from the buildings, accompanying the scent of cooking meat and frying dough, the pops and fizzles of the boiling oil dulled by the racket of voices surrounding them. People of all sorts belonged there – a man with a bird on his soldier, a woman covered head to toe in black cloth, a storyteller, a juggler, an entertainer playing a strange instrument at the water fountain, marking the center of all the noise.

Weaving through the people pushing against them like waves, Pesehet and Shani found the one place the two of them usually relied on – a small restaurant with beer imported from Tanis and fresh cooked pastries. As usual an array of dried fruits sat atop the counters, sold for a ring for an ounce. The two of them quickly ordered, stepping to the side to allow the next customers.

"I feel like there's more people here than usual," Shani commented, looking out across those seated and those waiting for to-go orders.

"That's good, right? Means Nizism's getting paid well," they said as they once more shifted to the side, accompanying the next people waiting for their own order.

"Yes, but it does sort of take away from the whole 'this is our special place' feeling."

"As long as the food's still good, I don't really care," Pesehet chuckled, crossing their arms.

"Don't you hate crowds?" Shani asked, her lips quirking up in a half smile as her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Worth it for quality honey cakes."

The two of them got their food soon after, worming through the crowd and out the door with bags in hand. Shani, ever one for the beauty of nature, suggested they go to the garden to eat – Pesehet thought that the privacy of their home would work better, but Shani ended up winning them over. 

Taking the same path back, Pesehet kept their eyes on the sky, looking up at the birds flying over the city in search of scraps of food. They would find none – most food left on the ground was eaten by the homeless population, a fact that sickened Pesehet in its' inhospitality. There was little Pesehet or Shani could do about it, unfortunately, as it was more of a systemic issue than a personal one, but the two of them would donate clothes or service when called upon or greatly needed. It was a trait they both shared – willingness to help others, a trait rarely seen in Memphis these days.

Shani found the good in people, or at least found the good in her surroundings. This trait, while not a shared one, was the single trait that drew Pesehet to her. Without her, Pesehet would know close to no one in the city, a fact that Shani knew well, and never brought up. 

For the remainder of the day Pesehet stayed at home, a building which doubled as their practice. Not an entirely large one – well enough, but certainly not noticeable in any fantastic way. In this time they worked silently at their table, mixing together different ingredients and storing them away for emergencies. Burn medication, scar healing, sdf. Once all concoctions were put safely in glass vials and canopic jars, Pesehet moved onto the next practice; sigils, written into the skin in either salve or ink. This was a daily practice for them, and only common sense for every other physician in Memphis – practice what you fix in others, minimize mistakes while doing the real thing. It never failed Pesehet before.

These days, the city seemed to be in good health. No outbreaks or problems of any kind; in fact, it had been at least a month since Pesehet had to make a house call. They'd done house calls many times before, and each time held its own special anxiety. Pesehet knew what they were doing, of course – the only issue was that the entire family liked to watch and pray, all their attention directed on Pesehet. From this fact stemmed a happy contentment in their own home, humming quietly as they painted prayers on their skin.

Their pen faulted as a knock at the door came, smearing the ink across their forearm. Cursing softly they stood, wiping the remaining ink on a rag, before leaving their desk behind to open the door. In the bright light of midday a street messenger came, covered in dust and sweat from the day's work. He handed them a letter, proclaiming it to be from somewhere down the river, and supposedly from one of the soldiers stationed there. 

Pesehet found this odd for several reasons, but said nothing, bidding the messenger a good day as they closed the door. No general or soldier had contact with them – in fact, hardly anyone outside the city did, but there were exceptions. Very few, but they existed. 

With fumbling, almost eager fingers they pried open the tight knot, letting the ribbon fall to the floor as they unravelled the message. It started off as any message would, a fact that only confused Pesehet further. It started like greeting a friend.

  
  


_ Pesehet, _

_ In regards to your last letter, things are not going so well. Control here is strong and I have made a friend, but the both of us find ourselves wary to continue our stay here, and wonder if things are perhaps better-off in Memphis. How we will get there you need not worry about – my friend and I are working on our own plans and details for that. The only worry we have is the state of the city. _

_ Is it safe there? How are the people? Do you think our arrival will be noticable? What are the chances of getting wrapped up in things you shouldn't? _

_ I apologize for the many questions, but they are prevalent issues to me and my friend. _

_ I hope to hear from you soon, _

_ Menes. _

Pesehet deduced a few things from the first glance at this letter. The author of it must be from the South, and this person clearly knew who Pesehet was. Another thing Pesehet could tell was that this person was in danger.

These questions were those such questions with easy answers – answers that everyone included in the modern world knew. The only reason they could think of that someone would not know these answers was that that person didn't have access to information. In that reasoning, Pesehet knew those living up the Nile had little access to information, if any at all, and it left them wondering for a moment or two before the pieces clicked together.

In Nubia, cut off from the rest of the world, the name Menes, the fact that the author knew Pesehet's name;

An old friend decided to visit.

Pesehet immediately dropped the letter, rushing to pull parchment and a reed out, and began writing a response as fast as they could. Erga needed their help.


End file.
